“It is,” he replied calmly. “But it’s funny. You don’t look like a Mary Smythe.”
“Says you.” Her gun arm was beginning to grow tired, probably from the months—no, years now—she’d been off active duty. She tightened her grip on the Firestar, hoping he wouldn’t notice that her hands were shaking.
He shrugged, the casual gesture belying the intensity of his pale eyes as they skimmed across her face, seemingly memorizing it. “Black hair, nice tan, despite living under constant cloud cover. You look more like a Maria.”
“So my parents are Honduran. So what?”
“In fact, I’d even say you look exactly like a Magdalena. Don’t you think, Maggie Reyes?” he asked softly, pinning her with those other-worldly eyes just as surely as if he’d slammed a hand against her throat.
Maggie gasped, backing into the kitchen counter so suddenly, she felt a burst of pain as the edge jabbed into the small of her back. “How—?”
“I read all your books,” he said, anticipating her question. “Including the author bio. You were a cop for four years before you turned to crime writing full-time. You’ve written eight true crime books for a major publisher, about half of which have landed on some bestseller list somewhere. You used to have a dog named Andromeda, although I don’t see any evidence of her here. And you like surfing and any other sport connected with water.”
Maggie could only stare at him, unsure whether to be impressed or deeply frightened.
“I recognized you from the book jacket photo,” Corrigan continued. He hitched one shoulder in a singular shrug. “Nice shot. It does you justice.”
Before she could react, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, tossing it on the table so it landed with a loud smack. It fell open, the large, blue FBI at the top of the ID she’d never gotten a solid glimpse of reassuring her slightly.
“You’ll find a business card inside with Fay Parker’s name on it,” he said. “She’s the SAC of the San Francisco field office. Call her. She’ll tell you I’m legit.” Corrigan sat down and leaned back in one of her kitchen chairs, lazily stretching his lean, denim-encased legs out in front of him.
SAC. It took her a few minutes to remember that the acronym meant Special Agent in Charge. Darn, it had been a while since she’d been in the game. Maggie tore her gaze away from the man’s wallet on the table, keeping the gun between them as she tried hard to keep her fear under control. “I don’t understand what you’re doing here. If you’re assigned to the San Francisco office, why would a serial killer who, until now, has stuck to his Louisiana territory, interest you?” She braced her tiring right elbow on the Formica and shot him what she hoped was a skeptical look. “Especially if you’re in Computer Crimes. What’re you going to do if you find him—throw old motherboards at him?”
Before she could react, he sprang out of the chair and pinned her with his body against the counter. She instinctively raised her hands to protect her face, a whimper escaping her lips before she could quell it. She didn’t even notice that the Firestar was no longer in her possession until she heard the magazine clatter to the floor, soon followed by a sharp clink indicating he’d ejected the chambered round as well.
“I’ll figure something out,” he said softly, making her all too conscious of just how vulnerable she was.
“Get out,” Maggie whispered, disgusted with herself. That wouldn’t have happened to her two years ago, when she’d been in the best shape of her life—and most likely able to defend herself against the charms of a too-handsome man with scary reflexes. She swiped her hand at the empty gun he held over their heads, knowing as she did so that it was a futile gesture.
It was. Instead, Maggie contented herself with wrapping her hands under his left wrist, which was braced against the counter. With a speed that came from years of training and eighteen months with nothing better to do, she brought the arch of her foot down hard along his shin, ending the move by crunching her weight down on his instep. In the split second where Corrigan slightly lost his balance, Maggie pushed back on his wrist, ducking under his arm and finally pinning it to his back at an awkward angle.
“You like to play rough, Maggie?” he asked through gritted teeth.
Jerk. She pushed the offending limb into an even more impossible position. “Drop my gun. Drop it now, or I’ll break your arm,” she snarled.
He dropped the Firestar, but twisted out of her grasp when her attention was momentarily drawn to the fallen weapon.
“Okay,” he said, backing away from her and holding his hands out so his palms faced her. “Okay. There’s no reason to get upset. I need your help, Maggie. I swear, that’s the honest truth. I never meant to frighten you.”
“Right,” she retorted. “So your whole ‘speak softly and flash a big gun’ schtick was meant to be reassuring? Was this before or after you were going to stop impersonating an officer and tell me who you really were?”
“Maggie—”
“Stop using my name so much. You sound like a used car salesman.” She advanced toward him and nearly stepped on the Glock she’d made him discard when he first came into the kitchen. She kicked it savagely across the room, far out of reach of either of them. A strand of black hair fell across her forehead and she blew it back in a huff. “You’re not going to be in my house long enough to establish any sort of rapport with me, so get used to it.”
He stopped backing away. “I’m not lying to you now. I am with the FBI. My badge is right there. You can trust me.”
“A lot of women trusted Kenneth Bianchi, Paul Bernardo, Ted Bundy. All good-looking, charming men.” Finally next to the kitchen phone again, Maggie snatched the receiver out of its cradle. “Homicidal maniacs, the lot of them.”
“Maggie—” She cut him off with a sharp glare. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I believe you. About the Surgeon coming here.”
Her finger hovered over the automatic dial button, but his words stopped her cold.
“Elizabeth Borkowski, a detective with the Monterey PD, is married to an old friend of mine from school. She knows about my interest in this case,” he continued, his eyes never leaving hers. “Do you really think the police are going to pay attention to you otherwise, without proof? Liz told me they’d filed your tip.”
Maggie dropped the receiver back in its cradle, feeling her entire body slump a bit at his words. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body, as if literally holding herself together while the adrenaline drained away as quickly as it had come.
“But I noticed the similarities between the New Orleans murders and the Carmel murder.” He closed the gap between them and placed a hand gently on her arm. Comforting, not threatening. A good way to approach the mentally unstable. “And when the cops at the Monterey station mentioned Little Rock, St. Louis and Denver, I plugged in my laptop and pulled up the files,” he said. “I knew you were on to something. But I didn’t expect…” He paused, cleared his throat. “You.”
“You expected Mary Smythe.” She looked down at where he had touched her. It was just a gesture, she told herself. Just meant to inspire trust now that there was a tenuous connection between them. “The crazy woman on Mermaid Point.”
He searched her face, probably trying to ascertain her craziness for himself. “I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Maggie hitched her shoulder abruptly, shrugging his hand off her, surprised when she missed the warmth of his touch once she was free.
“You’re not crazy.” His low voice wrapped around her, making her feel almost safe for the first time in two years. “I don’t know what made those cops think so, but I know your work. You have one of the best research minds out there. I saw you at Quantico.”
Where she’d given several guest